


Pinecones and Dinosaur Sandwiches

by objectlesson



Series: The House of Durin Series [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Brief mentions of grief, M/M, Pining, Realizations, Timestamp, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: When Bard figures it out.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Bofur
Series: The House of Durin Series [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1810201
Comments: 20
Kudos: 45





	Pinecones and Dinosaur Sandwiches

**Author's Note:**

> Someone asked me about when Bard realized he was in love with Bofur, and I had to write a whole story about it because thats how I role. This takes place sometime before the Academy of Sciences chapter of All Night Long. It's a very long winded Sound of Music reference. I love these character so much and I am a HUGE fan of the classic fan fiction "oh" and I will use it as many times as I want. Enjoy!

When Bard gets home from his afternoon shift, the house is empty. It smells delicious, something simmering in a pot on the stove at a low heat, but as he calls for the kids, no one answers. 

He finds them outside in the backyard, all seated around a quilt he hasn't seen in years. Bofur must have dug it up from the linen closet and laid it out on the mostly dead grass for a picnic. When Tilda sees him she vaults up, tears across the yard, and launches into his arms, sending him off balance, her wire and tulle fairy-wings from last halloween poking him in the eye. “Da!” she announces, squirming. “Bofur made sandwiches shaped like dinosaurs!” 

“Oh did he?” Bard says, raising an eyebrow and trying to ignore the way his heart clenches at Bofur’s _name_ alone. He’s not sure how this thing got so big and embarrassing so fast, but it _did._ It started with just initially, inevitably finding Bofur attractive. Bard thought that would wear off the more time he spent around him, but unfortunately instead it only festered and _grew._ That, coupled with his kids endless enthusiastic stories all starring Bofur, _plus_ their improved grades and moods and all-around wellbeing, forced Bard’s attraction to morph and grow, until it was this massive, painful live thing in his chest. He tries not to poke at it too much, lest it rupture. 

Arms aching, he carries Tilda across the yard and deposits her on the blanket. Bain and Sigrid are munching on tiny sandwiches which are, indeed, shaped like dinosaurs. And Reindeer. And Santa Clause. And stars. And teddy bears. They appear to be peanut butter and jelly or else cucumber and cream cheese, and Bard is astounded all it took to get Bain to willingly eat something green was for it to be dinosaur shaped. “What a feast,” he says. “May I join you all?” 

Sigrid pats the spot beside her. “Hi Da,” she says, with a shocking lack of vitriol. He's not sure he’s heard her voice sound this even and non confrontational in _years._ “Sure.” Then, she turns to Bofur, who Bard is trying hard not to look at because he knows it will just make his stomach drop, to see him. His dark twinkling eyes, his expressive mouth. It’s much easier to look at Bofur dead on once they’d both had a bit to drink and it's late and the kids are asleep. Then, there’s room for the gnawing hunger in his solar plexus. Room for the untempered potential he feels swelling inside him, between his lungs. Room to dream. “The punch is all gone,” Sigrid says, picking up the plastic pitcher and rattling the ice inside. 

“Well then, I guess I better go refill it then, can’t let you carry on _parched._ Anyone else want anything? Napkins? Forks?” he asks, and then, he reaches over and _taps Bard on the shoulder,_ making his heart ricochet up into his throat predictably. “What about you, tireless retail hero? Maybe a beer? How was work?” 

Bofur always asks about his work day, and it always makes Bard’s stomach roil his skin prickle with an overwhelmed heat. It’s been a long time since his life resembled anything close to what it was like when he was married, and so much ice has built up around the old wound he _forgets_ how much he misses little things, like this. Having someone interested in him. Interested in taking care of him. Even if it’s just Bofur’s _job,_ it still feels impossibly good. “Long and not great, but it’s fine, no beer. Punch sounds perfect, thank you,” Bard replies politely, hating every word, throat tight as Bofur smiles at him and heads back into the house with the empty pitches.

Bard is always like this: he doesn't always know how to unwind, or make jokes, or loosen up. But in stark and lovely contrast, Bofur is _positively_ brilliant at such things, everything about him so easy and jovial, a song forever resting there on his tongue, ready to burst free at the first sign of great skies. Bofur is like sunshine, or else a whole beautiful, warm, sandy beach _glinting_ in sunshine: the promise of fun, forever refracting the light into something golden. Bard _wishes_ he could parent like Bofur. He _wishes_ he knew how to make chores effortlessly entertaining, he wishes he’d thought to use cookie-cutters to enhance boring old sandwiches, he wishes he wasn’t so _anxious_ and tired all the time. Though it’s easier, now, with Bofur here. He doesn’t have to do the work of thinking things up from scratch, he can just step into the world Bofur’s already crafted. Eat at his picnic. Lie on his beach.

When Bofur returns, he’s wearing one of Tilda’s tutus over his jeans, and the kids think its hilarious. Bain is lying on his back wheezing about it, Tilda is begging for Bard’s phone so she can take a picture and document this momentous occasion, and Sigrid is snorting into her punch. Bofur borrows Tilda’s wings to complete the look, and Bard gets an excuse to study him through the lens of the camera, brow furrowed, heart pounding. “Very nice,” he says. “I almost threw that one away, the elastic’s all worn out so it doesn't fit her anymore. Clearly I didn’t have the idea to try it on myself.” 

“You just weren’t thinking like a princess, it's understandable, common mistake,” Bofur says breezily, before crossing his legs and sitting down. Then, he makes a face, winces, and lifts up again. “Ow. I just sat on—“and then, he reaches under himself and brings out a _pinecone._

Bard raises an eyebrow. “We don’t even have any pine trees in the yard,” he observes, narrowing his eyes at the kids. 

Sigrid, the clear culprit, is trying her hardest to stifle laughter. Bard is working up the energy to scold her when Bofur tosses the pinecone up into the air, catches it, and collapses down onto the back. “You tricky clever girl,” he groans. “ _That’s_ why you drank all the punch! It was a gambit so I’d get up and refill it. You were setting me up to lose.” 

She grins, and takes a notebook out of her pocket to very dramatically mark a tally, using much flourish. “I told you, I can play dirty. Also, I’ll have you know this puts me in the lead.” 

“Tomorrow, I’ll get you back won’t even _know_ what hit you,” Bofur says, sitting back up, bits of grass and debris in his hair as he makes a face at Sigrid. 

“I’m missing something,” Bard says, sitting on his hands so he doesn’t reach out and gently pick the bits of vegetation clinging to Bofur’s shirt.

“It’s a game,” Bofur says, shrugging. “That Sigrid and I play, where we try to get each other to sit on a pinecone I brought from the fire trails above The House of Durin. We track the number of times we dupe the other. We’re both quite good at it so we’re always neck in neck. 

“Why?” Bard asks, still feeling lost in the dark. 

“Why not?!” Sigrid asks, snatching the pinecone back from Bofur. “Games don’t have to have a _point,_ they’re just for fun,” she explains. 

And—it’s not something she would have said last year, or even last month. The change makes Bard’s eyes prickly with a sudden stinging heat, and he realizes he’s _moved_ to see her doing something silly. Moved to see them _all_ sitting out here in the crisp, still-warm breeze of September, eating dinosaur sandwiches and playing dress up and sitting on pinecones. It’s how kids their age _should_ be acting. And he’s done a piss poor job of helping them get here, the last few years. He’s been bringing his grief home, working too hard and too long, _worrying_ too much about the future, that he genuinely _forgot_ how play _works_ sometimes: pointless competition, goofy laughter, fun for the _sake_ of fun. 

_You’re fucking amazing,_ he wants to say to Bofur, but he tries not to curse in front of the kids, and he’s _sure_ if he admits he’s thinking something so raw, it will come out like a confession _. You’re fucking amazing and I lie awake at night imagining you’re beside me._

He just—he wants to hug Bofur for giving this minor triumph to Sigrid, for repurposing Tilda’s tutu, for disguising Bain’s vegetables. But he also wants to kiss him slow and deep, sneak his hands under his shirt, smooth his fingers through the hair on his chest. He wants _so_ many things. In fact, there’s very little he _doesn’t_ want from Bofur. He’s about to say something complimentary but less revealing when their eyes lock across the quilt, and so suddenly, any words he might have said dry up inside him, leaving his throat desert dry. _Oh,_ he thinks, heart pounding as Bofur winks at him, friendly and sweet and probably not suggestive in any way, but _still._

_Oh._

Bard realizes that this thing he’s feeling—it’s love. He’s fallen in love with Bofur, without even fully admitting it until this moment. 

And _of course_ he has, really. It seems like the natural progression of things, the simple condition of _knowing_ him. He is the most wonderful, lovable man. Probably all his friends are in love with him. Bard is likely one in a million people all in love with Bofur, hanging on the curve of his smile, living in the crinkles beside his eyes. _God._ It’s so unprofessional. So inappropriate. But it’s there all the same—Bard knows, because the sensation in his chest hasn’t been frightened away the stark shock of his realization. It remains warm and flickering like a low burning flame. 

He rubs his palm over his face, and sighs. “Hey. Are you ok?” Bofur asks then, cocking his head and tugging on the waxed end of his mustache. “Is there some household rule about pinecones I should know about?” 

“What? No, no. I’m—I’m great,” Bard says, shaking his head. “It’s just really great to see everyone having fun. Especially Sigrid,” he says, hooking an arm around her back and squeezing her to his side. 

She wriggles away. “Don’t get used to it,” she says. “You could be sitting on a pinecone, next.” 

Bofur relaxes, the tension draining from his body. “We have a good time, right?” he says, nudging Bain in the side. 

Bain nods, tearing the head off of a brontosaurus shaped sandwich, crunching the cucumbers inside. “Yup,” he agrees, spewing crumbs. 

And Bard looks at them all—his little family (plus Bofur), and he cannot help but wish this was how it was, always and into the future, solid and real and evermore. He spreads his palm over his chest, feeling out the nervous, achy thunder of his heart. 


End file.
